


Transfer

by osprey_archer



Series: Reciprocity Extras [6]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Lies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:21:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5112716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osprey_archer/pseuds/osprey_archer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>December 1991. The Winter Soldier awakens in American hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Transfer

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [littlerhymes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/littlerhymes/pseuds/littlerhymes) for betaing this!
> 
> Happy Halloween, everyone.

He wakes up to the soft beep of machines, the sound of cloth brushing cloth as people move around. Low voices surround him, soft as if in a sick room, and there is something odd about them, but he’s still too weak to pinpoint it. 

“Vital signs are stable.” 

He’s cold. Cold down to his bones. 

He’s been in cryo again.

A wave of hot fury rushes through him. Fucking Andrushka. He promised they’d go to Pelageya’s grave after they got back, he _promised_.

Only the Soldier never got back. The last thing he remembers is falling asleep on the goddamn train.

Andrushka must have drugged him. He must have drugged the tea, and the Soldier was so tired he didn’t even realize, and then Andrushka put him right in cryo. He’s going to fucking kill Andrushka when he gets up, he’ll _kill_ him.

“His heart rate’s picking up.” 

At any rate the Soldier won’t work with him anymore, not at all. Andrushka will lose his fancy apartment and his access to the Party food stores and everything that makes his shitty little life worth living, and maybe they’ll even send him to the gulag. 

“He must be waking up.” The new voice is deep, rather husky, not at all like Andrushka’s nasal whine. “Sergeant Barnes? Can you hear me? It’s all right. You’re among friends again.” 

There’s a hand on his face. His eyes pop open. He jerks away, but he’s still too weak to move much. 

“It’s all right, it’s all right,” the deep voice says. It belongs to an older man, light hair and a kindly smile. He looks familiar. “I’m not going to hurt you.” 

That’s when the Soldier realizes. 

They’re all speaking English.

Well, shit. 

“No one’s going to hurt you anymore,” the man says. His warm hand rests on the Soldier’s shoulder. “I’m Alexander Pierce. I led the rescue mission. We’ve finally brought you back home, Sergeant Barnes.”

***

Soon he’s sitting up, blanket around his shoulders. He’s still in his armor. Andrushka really did just haul him directly from the train into the permafrost.

Fucking Andrushka. And the Soldier can barely even be mad about it anymore, because he’s too furious that that incompetent fuck got him kidnapped. 

Andrushka will go to the gulag for it. Let Andrushka lose his teeth, like Grisha did. Let him lose some toes to frostbite, maybe his nose too. At least for once, let the gulag hurt someone who deserves it. 

Sasha talks and talks and brings the Soldier disgusting weak tea. (The Soldier has downgraded the man from respectful Alexander Pierce to Sasha in disgust.) Of course the Americans have no fucking idea how to brew tea. 

The Soldier is thirsty, though, so he sips it, his lips drawn back from his teeth. Two guards flank the doorway. Each holds a semi-automatic. 

“Do you understand English?” Sasha asks eventually. He really does seem familiar, but the Soldier can’t place him. “ _Ti ponimaesh –_ ”

“Yes,” the Soldier interrupts. He doesn’t want to hear that voice butcher another word of Russian. 

“Well,” says Sasha, recovering himself. “That’s good. After fifty years of torture, I was afraid…”

Fifty years of torture, is that what Sasha thinks? No one has ever tortured him. 

Sasha is rambling on. “…of course _I_ don’t blame you for giving in. But unfortunately it’s not my call, and we’re going to have to win the naysayers over before they get a chance to put you in prison. Once we’ve completed a couple of missions, they’ll see that your desire to atone is sincere. The State Department is most impressed with your skills.” 

The Soldier seethes. He has nothing to atone for. Just because he was born in the US, that doesn’t mean he owes them anything. Communism is the vanguard of history. Agnessa and Grisha died for it, Roman and Petya and Pelageya and everyone; they all suffered so much for it, even he has suffered so much for it. It’s got to win out in the end. 

He has been silent too long. Sasha fills the silence. “I imagine you’re upset it took us so long to rescue you,” he says.

He can imagine what he likes. The Soldier won’t correct his misconceptions. 

He’d better play along with them, in fact. It will be easier to get away if Sasha doesn’t realize the Soldier is trying to escape. 

“Fifty years?” the Soldier says. He’s still weak from cryo, and his voice sounds small and pathetic. “Is it 1995?”

“It’s 1991,” Sasha says. “Almost Christmastime. I want your transition back to the United States to be as painless as possible. After all those years of suffering…” 

Sasha’s voice trails off. Then the Soldier gets it. He is supposed to fall to his knees and weep grateful tears over Sasha’s feet for rescuing him from the cruel Soviets. He should beg forgiveness and sob with joy at being allowed to _atone_.

“You’re too kind,” the Soldier grits out. 

“Not at all.” Sasha says. He gently tilts the Soldier’s face up. The Soldier can’t help it; he jerks away. Sasha looks crushed. “I will never hurt you,” he says. “I know it may be hard to accept after so many years of pain, but you deserve kindness. If you ever feel hurt or confused or upset about anything, I want you to feel safe coming to me. I’ll help you understand.” 

He’ll spew out American imperialist propaganda, more like. The Soldier lowers his head so Sasha can’t see his scowl. His hair flops in his face. It always grows in cryo. 

Sasha stands. “Would you like to look outside? It’s going to be a white Christmas. Absolutely beautiful.”

Excellent. He’ll check out the lay of the land. 

The Soldier wobbles out of bed and shuffles after Sasha, exaggerating his weakness as he walks. The guards follow at a respectful distance. He’s still wearing his combat boots. 

“I’m afraid your father died a decade ago,” Sasha says. It hits the Soldier like a little explosion in his empty stomach. “But your mother’s still alive. We thought we might arrange for you to see her this Christmas.” 

The Soldier’s resolve falters. He barely remembers his mother, only tiny slivers of memory. But he’d remember more if he saw her, he’s sure of it. Couldn’t he wait till after that, at least? He could see her, and then…

No. He knows how these people work. They’re not going to let him see his mother just like that. He would have to do some of their filthy missions first, and then he’d be too compromised to go back home. 

But maybe he could visit her on his own, once he escapes? She would make him cocoa – and a memory hits him, a shard of shattering clarity: coming in from the cold late at night (why? He can’t remember why he was out so late), a steaming mug of cocoa, his mother ruffling his hair to loosen the snow. _I put a lot of effort into this hair, Ma, don’t mess it up_ – 

No. No. No. They’ll have her place watched. No. 

“Sergeant Barnes?”

He nearly flinches from the name.

“I know this must be very hard,” Sasha says. “But you don’t need to worry that your mother is angry with you for betraying the United States. Of course she was very upset at first, but she knows you only did it because the Soviets hurt you so horribly. She’s been trying to help your sisters understand.” 

“But…” They didn’t hurt him. It was just that he didn’t remember anything. His mother would understand if she knew. 

“Don’t blame yourself,” Sasha soothes. “It wasn’t your fault. I’m sure you resisted as well as you could.”

The Soldier bites the inside of his lip until it bleeds. He won’t cry in front of them.

Sasha stops in front of a window. There is snow outside, peaceful and white. A couple of guards walk across it, their breath soft puffs in the air. It can’t be much below zero. His jacket will keep him warm. 

He may have to wait until the morning, though. The sun is getting low. 

Sasha leans against the windowsill, the soft light of the evening in his face. It draws out the gold in his hair; it smoothes out the roughness of age. 

That’s when the Soldier recognizes him. This is Zola’s apprentice devil. 

These aren’t just Americans. He’s in the hands of the fascists. 

***

The Soldier is not panicking. There is no cause for panic. 

He’s going to have to speed up his timeline, that’s all. He has no idea why Sasha’s being so polite about everything when he’s probably just raring to get the Soldier on an operating table – maybe they don’t have the doctor in the house at the moment? They’re going to strap him down and cut him up and – 

No, no, no. Everything is fine. He’s going to get away. Everything is _fine_. 

Sasha turns his gaze from the window and smiles at the Soldier. The Soldier smiles back. His mouth feels stiff.

Sasha doesn’t notice anything wrong, the moron. He puts a hand on the Soldier’s shoulder. The Soldier’s skin crawls. 

So the fascists have taken over the United States. It’s only surprising that it didn’t happen earlier, really. 

“Are you hungry?” Sasha is solicitous. 

“Yes.” He needs sustenance. He can only hope the food won’t be drugged. 

They go to a kitchen, a cozy room with a rustic table and chairs and checkered curtains framing the window. The bare skeleton of a lightning-struck tree sticks out among the charming snow-capped firs. There are two doors, one for each guard.

Sasha gets him chicken soup and a grilled cheese sandwich and a whole orange all to himself. He eats it carefully, because his stomach is still just waking up, and tries to listen attentively to Sasha. He’s lying through his teeth, but it will still give clues about what’s really going on. Just like _Pravda_. 

“Our first target,” Sasha is saying, “is Howard Stark.” The Soldier can’t suppress a slight movement of surprise, and Sasha says, “You remember him? That’s – good, that’s very good. How much do you remember?” 

_He had a flying car_. Aloud he says, “He’s an industrialist.” 

“That’s good,” Sasha says again. “The doctors will help you remember more.” He reaches across the table to push a lock of hair from the Soldier’s face. The Soldier flinches. “I’m not going to hurt you, sweetheart, I promise. Did they hit you a lot?” 

Andrushka had always been much too afraid of the Soldier to hit him. The Soldier once hurled a bowl of borscht at his head. “All the time,” the Soldier says maliciously. He scrapes at the soup in the bottom of his bowl. 

“I’m sorry we took so long to save you,” Sasha says. His voice has taken on a gentle, sentimental tone again. “One of America’s greatest heroes, a member of the Howling Commandos, abandoned by his best friend in Soviet hands… We never stopped looking for you. But it wasn’t until the Soviet Union fell – ” 

The Soldier’s spoon crashes in his nearly empty bowl. “What?” 

Sasha rests his own spoon carefully in his soup. “The Soviet Union collapsed,” he says. 

That’s not possible. That can’t be true. 

The Soldier is hyperventilating. Sasha’s hand is on his forearm. “Sweetheart, don’t get upset. It’s not your fault. No one is going to punish you.”

“Punish me!” the Soldier explodes. “My country collapsed! And you think all I care about is maybe I’ll be _punished_?” 

An endless half-second of silence follows. He has tipped his hand far too soon. 

Time to go. 

He grabs up the butter knife, lunges across the room, and slams it through the guard’s neck. The guard gives a gurgling scream. The Soldier swings the guard’s semi-automatic, still clenched the guard’s arms, and casts an arc of bullets toward Sasha, the other guard, the window. The glass shatters. The Soldier jerks the gun free of the dying man’s hands and dives through the window into the snow. 

He tucks, rolls, comes back to his feet, and runs. 

He’s not as fast as he should be, but still faster, he thinks, than normal humans. He just has to reach the trees. He knows snowy forests, better than an American ever could – 

An alarm blares. A flock of crows burst from a tree up ahead. Almost there. He’ll get away, he’ll lose them – 

He slams into a wall. 

It hurls him backwards. He lands on his back in the snow. The fall knocks the breath out of him. His body is on fire, as if he’d been stung all over by bees. 

He hears shouting. They’re getting close. 

He tries to push himself back to his feet. His right arm is weak as spaghetti, but he pushes himself to sit. 

His left arm doesn’t move at all. Short-circuited. Shit. 

“He hit the laser fence,” someone calls. “Caspar! Take the shot!”

Something hits him. He collapses back in the snow. He is staring down at his arm, and it seems to take forever before he recognizes the thing sticking out of his hand as a tranquilizer dart. 

Fuck. They want him alive. 

If he could move, he’d get his hands on the stolen gun and shoot himself. Better a quick death where he can’t tell them anything, than a vivisection during which he will tell _everything_. 

But the gun went flying when he hit the invisible wall, and it’s ten feet away and might as well be a mile, because now he can’t move at all. 

They’re circling him, cautious. Someone nudges his side with a rifle butt, then slams it into his ribs when it’s clear that he can’t retaliate. The Soldier can’t even curl up to protect himself. 

“None of that.” Sasha’s voice is sharp. “I want him in good shape for the mission.” 

Sasha’s weight pins the Soldier in the snow. He’s kneeling on the Soldier’s chest, one hand on the Soldier’s throat. Two bullet holes slash through his suit, showing a bulletproof vest underneath. He slaps the Soldier hard across the face. 

“Thought you weren’t gonna hurt me,” the Soldier taunts, voice slurred. They’re going to chop him up into tiny little pieces anyway, it doesn’t matter what he says. 

Sasha slaps his other cheek. The Soldier’s head rocks with the blow. “I never thought you would murder your rescuers,” Sasha says. “I thought you were a loyal American.” 

“Rescuers! You’re fascist pigs. I’m a loyal citizen of the Soviet state – ” 

“What Soviet state?” Sasha asks. “There’s nothing left. Moscow and St. Petersburg are nothing but ashes since the bombs dropped.” 

The Soldier goes cold all over, far colder than the snow. “No,” he gasps. “No. You’re _lying_.” 

But he’s not. The Soldier knows. Of course the fascists nuked the Soviet Union. They wanted to destroy their greatest enemies. Gorbachev has always been too soft, just like Andrushka said, and the fascists took advantage. 

“We _had_ to, pet,” Sasha says. His grip tightens on the Soldier’s neck, not quite tight enough to cut off his air supply. “They nuked New York first.” 

“Liar!” the Soldier screams. He tries to spit on Sasha. Most of it ends up on his own face, but a little gets on Sasha’s. Sasha leans away from him and wipes his face with a handkerchief, finicky as a cat. 

He stands up. He steps over the Soldier. The Soldier grabs at his ankle. It makes Sasha stumble, but he doesn’t fall. He hops free and kicks the Soldier in the head. 

The world goes black. When it comes back, it’s fuzzy and flickering. “Get him up,” someone is saying, and he is being wrenched to his feet. He tips, top-heavy on the left, slips through their fingers, falls. He can’t catch himself. The fall punches the air from his lungs. 

“I didn’t want it to be this way.” Sasha’s voice floats in the air, somewhere high above him, full of regret. “God _damn_ it. Wipe him.” 

He never does remember what happens after that. 

***

“Is he going to be any good to us like this?” Caspar asks. 

Pierce stands watching through the one-way mirror as the technicians unstrap Sergeant Barnes from the chair. They nearly drop him as they maneuver his limp body onto a gurney. 

“Sir?” Caspar says. He’s got a piece of paper twisted up in his hands. 

“He’d better be.” Pierce just lost two of his best men to this monster. He’d better be everything that rumor promises. 

But they won’t know for a few hours yet. Pierce has a conference call with Howard Stark in the meantime, and he needs to come up with a contingency plan for Stark's assassination, too, in case Sergeant Barnes proves worthless after the wipe. 

The technicians finally manage to get Sergeant Barnes onto the gurney. Pierce turns away as they insert an IV into his wrist. “Tell Gloria to stand down,” he tells Caspar, tossing the words over his shoulder. “She won’t need to play Mrs. Barnes, after all.”


End file.
